Dancing and Danger
by Quia
Summary: When Loki uses up most of his resources, he flees to London to recover. However, he soon finds something much more entertaining than toying with the Avengers. "What do you do?" has never started something so entrenching. I do not own either series.
1. Prologue Back against the Wall

The rain poured over London. Of all the mortal cities he had the pleasure of visiting—or lack thereof—Loki found this one by far more tolerable. Tugging the collar of the black peacoat he had slipped into up around the sharp arches of his pale face, he pushed out into the cool wind and rain. It crashed and hung on him like his thoughts that pelted him at the moment. A place to _stay hide run away—_anywhere that would hide him. Loki had called ahead and planned a few tours. With his magic, minute as it is, cost was not important. Something quaint enough so that he won't be suspected of foul play, something nice enough that wouldn't be an eyesore. A woman in the Marylebone district had two flats up, although one was mold-ridden. Those were the last stop of the day. First, he'd start in a large flat for purchase at Richmond, then slip over to see the rooms for rent in East Sheen and Barnes. After that, Loki would visit the open areas in Chiswick, Teddington, and Kingston. It was, surely, going to be a long day.

* * *

"Sherlock! Is it necessary for you to turn down every case?" John Watson was feeling a bit _needled. _Honestly, the eccentric sociopath was too much today. Since _the_ Woman had disappeared after the latest escapade, Sherlock Holmes was always bored. However, the infuriating man would not count the blessings that he received so many damnable clients. They weren't all that boring.

"Really, John. Consider the first man, obviously a smoker. His teeth were yellowing and he reeked. The house fire was his mistake, clearly. No foul intentions or murder attempt. Besides, I'd rather wait for him to be murdered and solve that." John's mouth flew open to retort, but Sherlock plowed on. "The woman has been reading too many books. Her eyes were irritated because she either needs glasses or fails to use them. However, it's most likely the latter because she's paranoid. You can tell that by the way she looked over her should three times when she entered. She wouldn't have let her eyes irritate her for so long without going to the doctor. She has most likely been reading far too many curious novels. Thirdly, the older man was coming to us about what he _believes _to be a divine intervention—he claims to have come face to face with a Norse God. Tell me, Watson, how many people do you know believe in tangible gods walking in to look at a room for rent?"

"Well, you probably would find it more interesting then finding the missing tabby for client number four. I've been watching the news, Sherlock. Haven't you seen the attacks in the Americas a few months back? They say that it was a God that lead that army—a Norse one at that. How unlikely is it?" John pressed. His hands were still, and he was trying his best to, at the very least, get Sherlock to consider doing something other than wallow and collect dead body parts.

"Is that so? Perhaps I should watch more tellie like you, dear John." Sherlock mocked lightly. John's face tugged into a fraction of a frown. Both found themselves jumping up when Ms. Hudson rushed in. She was dressed in clothes a tad more formal than the usual dress. Her hair was done and she had taken to putting on a bit of eye shadow, although there was little of anything else.

"Oh, good. You're both dressed! Splendid. We have a lovely young man coming in to look at the available spaces, and he should be—" Ms. Hudson perked up, stopping midsentence to listen to the short buzz. "That's him! I'll go let him in." John looked at Sherlock, noting that face. When the taller weasel-like man went to squeeze after the older landlady, John clamored to catch his arm.

"No, no. I know that face. Don't terrorize him." John said, words and grip firm. Sherlock responds with a quick eyebrow quirk.

"I don't terrorize them, John. I just analyze." Sherlock, countered, before tugging his arm away and heading down the stairs just in time to hear Ms. Hudson greet the possible occupant. The man in question was tall, taller than Sherlock had figured. His hair was short and slicked back, raven black against the paler than most complexion. He felt John bustle off to the side of him to also get a look. Sharp, pale eyes, not blue exactly and not quite green either, shot over to look at them—and notably glittered with mirth.

"I hope I wasn't interrupting anything." He said, smoothly. British, undoubtedly. His voice didn't tremble and was well suited for his stature and appearance. Sherlock glanced to the side to see John almost flutter at the suggestion.

"We're not—we're colleagues. I'm John Watson." John bristled, although simmered down as the man nodded. He offered a wide, shark-like smile.

"I'm Loki Lawson. If you don't mind me questioning, what is it that you and your _colleague _do?" Loki asked, intent on causing trouble, if only a little bit. Sherlock began to speak, however, before he could stir the metaphorical pot more.

"I am a consulting Detective, and most notably, the only one in the world. John assists me. You, however.." Sherlock stepped forward, noting the height difference. Roughly four centimeters—"You are obviously in the business of keeping people out of it. You dress indistinctly, and while few flaws could point to office work, you would have wear along the seat of your pants." Loki raised an eyebrow when Sherlock unabashedly leaned around him to check. "There is none. You also dress in well-fitted clothes, and that means that you either buy new clothes regularly or you do not change that much in weight. It's most likely the second due to the lack of nutrition. You take care of yourself, otherwise. Very prideful. Also, named after a God of Mischief? You take after your name. There's slight wrinkling at the corners of your eyes, but no laugh lines visible. You had to keep your entertainment to yourself. Or else you would have been caught. By the way, I'm Sherlock Holmes. Was I wrong about anything?" This coaxed a laugh out of the man, but there was, as Sherlock had said, little motion with his mouth. Most of the emotion was propelled by his eyes. His tongue darted out to dab at paper thin lips.

"No, no. Quite right. Good to meet you, detective." Loki replied, his words working like silk over his silvered tongue. He was well practiced. This mortal was unlike any he had ever had the opportunity of speaking with. While Stark was a genius with his science, this Sherlock Holmes was a man of analyzing. Capable of being a worthy challenge in wit. With a shaggy appearance and almost an addicted craze about him, he would make good entertainment. "Ms. Hudson, I would like the flat upstairs. The one in the basement is a little too moldy for my liking. No offense meant, of course. You can't keep a place so dark in this city with all this rain." Ms. Hudson looked surprised, but, to her credit, nodded briskly and hurried down to wherever she might be keeping the paperwork. Sherlock suspected the common desk.

"What do you do?" John asked, noting that Loki had removed his peacoat. It was now folded neatly over his arm.

"That would be a secret. Want to play a game?" Loki grinned. Sherlock jerked, his eyes focusing on him now.

Hook. Line.

Sinker.

* * *

Hey, Quia here! First fiction in a long, long time. Please review if you have time!


	2. Chapter 1 No Rain

It was almost the two week mark when the neighbors met again. Loki had moved at an agonizingly- slow pace setting the flat up and decorating. The wallpaper was ripped off, and he was fashioning his walls with a delicate green—the mortal way. There was hardly warning when the door flew open, Ms. Hudson towing Sherlock and John behind her. Loki found himself grinning at the sight—the elder woman wearing an old white shirt and sweats of all things, John dressed similarly, and Sherlock in what looked like a hazmat suit. He turned to scowl at the wall—he shouldn't let his emotions flash by so easily. Too bad he had already taken the paper down. The scowl he was sporting could do a better job of peeling it off the walls. Loki turned on his heel, doing an elaborate bow.

"To what do I owe this honor?" Loki drawled, feeling a little theatric. He already let happiness surface. Time to run with it. It was stupid. They didn't know who he was. If they did, they'd be kneeling. Or calling Thor's blasted _friends._ They all shifted, varying in reactions. The Landlady looked positively cheerful, John looked sheepish. Sherlock looked bored.

"Well, deary, we're going to help you!" Ms. Hudson declared, and something about it made him think _family._ Loki was quick to suppress a grimace. It was John who spoke next.

"This is a nice shade of green. It'll be nice during the warmer months. It's soothing, don't you think?" John murmured, moving to grab a brush. "What wall would you like me to take?" The Trickster looked thoughtful.

"How about the wall with the built-in cabinets? I was never good at those." It was a lie, of course, falling easily from his lips without second thought. Sherlock moved to examine to room carefully.

"Number six a nine c five three? An unusual choice of green. More would name 'forest green' or 'olive green.' Did you specifically request this color?" Sherlock said, making no move to join the painting festivities. Loki ignored him in favor of smearing some more paint on the bare walls. He heard Sherlock moving closer to examine the paint. "You paint with quick strokes, but they're not quite perfect. You are not used to painting at all. Judging by that, you've probably had other people to paint for you or you've hired them. Probably the first, considering that we've ended up here now. Honestly, this isn't entertaining at all. I'd rather wait—"

Sherlock was asking for it. With a quick turn, Loki swiped the paintbrush over the faceplate of Sherlock's white hazmat suit. He startled back, bumping into John, who managed to avoid stepping in the paint can by rubbing on the area he had just painted. Ms. Hudson was soon laughing with a cry of 'Boys!' Loki's eyes crinkled, as Sherlock swore and wrestled to get the mask off. John was soon wearing a half-cracked smile, one that stopped where his face began to look green. Loki laughed along, until he felt a sickly wet slap to his chest.

It was war.

* * *

They finished up quickly, and for that, Loki was grateful. They all had to get a shower, since green was not a normal shade on the human body. John invited him up into 221B to let the paint dry overnight—and as an apology, most likely, for wasting so much paint. Such unrestrained kindness—certainly something Loki wasn't used to. With awkward thanks on his lips, he sat down on the old sofa. The living area was littered with books and assorted things. Trinkets covered desktops—was that a femur bone? Loki felt his eyebrows shoot up evenly. Ms. Hudson came up after an hour, asking John to join her to the grocer's. The man humbly went after her, shouting something that Loki paid no mind to. It was about this time Loki stood up to investigate.

A small book called London A through Z rested on one of the desks next to pictures of graffiti. He pushed it around, not giving it too much thought. A bag with what looked like pictures from a crime scene. It dated back a few months, nothing too much. A phone. A pen that had no ink, a pencil. Loki picked up another book, turning it over. A name.. Tolkien, was it? Yes. Loki studied it for a moment, and then decided to ask to borrow it later. It looked interesting enough. Placing it down, he turned to look at the walls. There was a smiley-face in the same graffiti from the pictures. Shrugging it off, he traversed the floors covered in boxes carefully. In the kitchen, John's technology—he remembered it being called a 'laptop'—lay open on what Loki supposed was a book or something similar. He ignored it in favor of glaring at the dishes. Loki stumbled into an outturned chair, turning his head to glare at it as well. Until, of course, he noticed the jar of eyeballs. "How absolutely odd." He muttered.

"Is it? John had similar thoughts about the severed head in the fridge." Loki whipped around, looking at Sherlock carefully. The man—only four centimeters shorter now that he looks—strides over and goes so _far _as to put his arms on either side of him. Trapping him. Or attempting to, at very least. Loki looks straight into Sherlock's eyes, which are as crazed as he appeared two weeks ago. "What of this game you mentioned earlier? Do you work with Moriarty? Does the name mean anything to you?" Breathless already.

"I mean only to.. Compete with you. I thought it would be interesting if you could figure out what I do before I leave. I don't have any connections or secrets if that's what you're questioning—I just fancy games of wit." Sherlock looked at him narrowly. "Five tries."

"You have to work with myself and John." Sherlock countered. Loki opened his mouth to question, but Sherlock beat him to it with an answer. "I need to see you work. I need to see you do something. Consider it security. Or else I'll never come down to a solid idea. Oh, and I won't have to break into your flat." Loki inclined his head, feeling some hair brush his forehead. He was far too close. If this would settle it, so be it.

"Deal. You have five tries, or until I leave to figure it out. I work with you and John as a colleague until then." Sherlock backed off, extending his hand. So much for that loophole. Loki slipped his hand into the other's, noting the warmth.

* * *

That was how, in three day's time at three in the morning, Loki found himself awake due to banging on his doorframe. Thor was always the heavy sleeper. Loki stayed up for hours on end, reading books of lore and assorted things. Now, he would sit and watch the late night shows on the television box. It was a curious thing, but it was certainly better than lying awake waiting for nothing but simple sleep. Nonetheless, Loki stretched, crawling from bed with a certain amount of reluctance. In five minutes, he was wearing khakis and a green tailored shirt. He slipped his feet into brown boots before opening the door.

"I thought I was going to have to break in. It'd be unfortunate if you were murdered as well, although it would be a welcome distraction. Come on now, they've found a body out in the rain. It was almost missed because it was sinking into the ground." John looked a little apologetic, but Sherlock was out of the door frame as soon as he finished.

It wasn't too far, but it was in an obscure, older lot. The body was on a tarp, pallid. The tarp was already starting to sink beneath the body. Sherlock jerked his head from John to the body. Loki stood back to watch. John went over, stooping over to poke and prod around.

"It's a male in his early to late thirties. It looks like he had diabetes.. Oh. Oh, well, that's unusual." Both Sherlock and Loki stepped closer, bumping shoulders. The god inched off a bit, but craned his neck to look at what had John turning his thoughts over. "It's a cut that was infected."

"Was?" Loki questioned. It still looked ill.

"This isn't a victim. You can see where the stitches closing it up are flesh-colored. It's also been cleaned out. This is a body that was prepared at a morgue, most likely for a funeral." Sherlock said, mapping it out quickly. Loki inclined his head. Did humans really go through so much trouble for their deceased? A pyre was less work.

"A body doesn't sink like this, though. Why would somebody dump a body of a man who died natu—well, as close to natural as possible? Why would it sink?" John questioned, boggled. His eyes searched the dead man. Loki knew it had no answers. Dead men tell no tales, as such. As if he had been struck by lightening, Sherlock lurched forward, tugging the hem of the white dress shirt. A few on-scene doctors went to grab Sherlock, but stood stock-still when there was stitching from the male's belly button to his collar bone.

"He's too heavy for a man of his weight! Nobody would've noticed the stitches normally because it's a normal process." Sherlock said, slapping his forehead.

"So nobody would've noticed that he was filled with stones." Loki said under his breath, Sherlock turning to examine him. "Stones, if I am correct? Anything with edges could rip and tear the body, and fall out with careless behavior. Whoever did this clearly doesn't care for the deceased." It was falling in place so easily for the detective. Loki felt a little peeved that the man's mind worked so quickly considering his mortal state.

"Precisely. We need to find out where he was taken and from there, we begin to question the workers. Then, we can figure out why they would do this." Sherlock mused out loud, standing. "Now. Let's leave the rest to the police. God, how do they get anything done without me?" Sherlock strode ahead, leaving them no time to answer.

* * *

Loki was sitting down with a cup of tea when John knocked. He entered quietly, closing the door behind him. He gestured to a chair, and Loki nodded. John Watson was polite, and Loki found it almost entertaining in the way he interacted with the curious, eccentric sociopath.

"This green looks very nice in here. Did you change the floor?" John questioned. He wanted to talk about something. It was obvious in the way that he didn't offer an explanation when he walked in.

"I had it done first. You just couldn't see it before because of the painting tarps. I enjoy dark wood floors." Loki answered, sipping his tea. "Would you like a cup? There's a new pot." John shifted in his seat, shaking his head. His hair was getting a little on the long side, the Doctor would need a haircut soon.

"No.. No, that's quite fine. I'm here to ask you some things." Loki nodded, a small smirk trying to slip in at the corner of his lips. He kept his face painfully neutral. "Sherlock's been using my laptop to, well, look you up. He can't find anything. No previous addresses, no.. Anything, really." John said, watching him carefully. Maybe Loki should've made him a cup. He offered an eyebrow raising up.

"That's because I don't wish to be found, John." And Loki smiled this smile, which made all the hairs on the back of John's neck rise.

* * *

Oh my god! Thanks to everyone that reviewed, favorited, and followed! I was so happy to get such an AWESOME reply! I was seriously jumping up and down when I checked my email on Friday, and I'm still so happy today. I decided to work a little longer to give you guys a nice chapter (or, one I hope you find nice) as thanks. I am seriously so jazzed. For anyone who's wondering, the chapter names are all going to be in a similar genre of music, and it's a song I listened to while writing.

The next song is by The Killers. If you can guess it, you'll get a cameo. BUT! You have to be the first to get it right and you can only guess one song. Good luck!

As always, review if you have time! Ciao for now!


	3. Chapter 2 Mr Brightside

"What—" John said, his hands pushing the chair across the floor with an unpleasant rumble. The ex-soldier was standing, shoulders broad despite the unintimidating wool sweater. Loki placed the teacup down, his eyes not breaking contact.

"Don't do that again. I would hate it if you scratched up my floors." The trickster sneered, before relaxing back into his normal feature. "I have some family that I wanted to get away from. My brother, if you must ask. I need time, you see." Loki explained smoothly, his lips pursing when he finished. John seemed to settle down after this, sitting back.

"What was so bad that made you hide... Well, everything? That's.." _Suspicious, intimidating, terrifying_. "Rather rash, I guess." Came out instead, and John found himself gripping the chair's arms. The raven-haired man across from him picked up the teacup again with delicate fingers, taking a long sip before setting it over. "You can talk about it." John said, although he'd rather be pushing the other down and making sure that his queries were answered in fullest. Something about this man flipped a switch in his head—just like all the murderers they've met. He just wasn't _right._

"There was a falling out. A private one, if you must know. I'm currently sitting still until the storm blows over. Right now, I'm living off the meager assets I can secure from my own accounts. I've seen to it that they're not traceable. Anything else you'd like to know, Doctor Watson?" Loki made sure to clip his tone to ensure that he sounded bothered. John nodded a bit, thinking.

"So I suppose I shouldn't use your full name on my blog?" Loki's eyebrows shot up, that throwing him for a loop. The stout man was now standing and heading for the door. "I won't, if that's what you're up to. Sorry. We've had some issues for a while now."

Loki watched as he slipped through the door, pulling it closed with an audible click. The god found himself slumping back, his magic swirling in his chest, pressing against his heart. Loki's eyes flittered around and his thoughts followed, almost in step. Like a dance that wasn't quite a dance and he's suddenly so jealous that social interaction falls so easily to others as lies falls to him. That what he told himself it was—it wasn't anxiety that was pressuring him, poking and prodding at all his inner workings. His hand grasped the teacup and brought it back up, only for the last bit of the liquid to disappear down his throat.

Loki only shared so much because lies need enough truth in order to be deceiving. Sentiment was not what delivered his words through his mouth. Despite being able to lie so easily to others, Loki found it increasingly difficult to lie to himself.

* * *

The police had called only thirty minutes prior, alerting them that they had found a morgue that almost fit the bill. It wasn't far from Baker Street and thus, the three were walking toward the supposed location. Sherlock was wearing a common navy scarf with his trench coat, the lapels pulled up to cover his face—and to look cool, as John muttered moments before exiting their residence. John was sporting the same sweater he had worn when questioning Loki, although now it looked a tad more wrinkled than it had yesterday. Loki himself was wearing a tan peacoat as of today, with black pants and a black tailor dress shirt. Hands shove into his pockets, he kept pace with the mortals. The day's sky was gray with little color elsewhere. The wind tugged and pushed at them all, propelling them through the thin groups of Londoners. It was a nice day for a London winter, with little sprinkles dotting the hair of the under passing colleagues. There was a bit of small talk between the two mortals, but Loki tuned it out. His eyes remained steady on nothing in particular, his thoughts the tune to which he marched. When they arrived at the morgue, his eyes flitted up to the boarded up sign. It looked like no one had been here in a while, the windows covered with old ply board. Sherlock glanced between John and Loki, before trying the handle. The door creaked open, and the lights flicked on almost immediately. John looked like he was ready to turn around when there was nobody in there, but a small buzz stopped him.

"What was that?" Sherlock questioned, stepping in to almost loom over John, who pulled his phone out of his pocket.

"It's a text message. The number's blocked, though." John said, scrolling to hit OPEN on the phone screen. The message opened with a ping after a second processing.

You can walk out if you want, but the clue will be destroyed if you leave. –ART

Sherlock stepped back, looking around the room. The desk was dusty, covered in age and spots. There was a spot wiped clean, just above a drawer. Lurching forward, Sherlock moved to a kneeling to pull the drawer open. Inside was a note—the first of many to come. "The owners used to keep the bodies in the back. The door is open." Sherlock said loud enough for both Loki and John to hear. Loki moved to the back of the shop, greeted by a dark steel door. It wasn't a moment before Sherlock was at his shoulder, reaching for the handle. "The room is encased in steel and used to keep the bodies cool before the send them off to be packaged up and stuck in the cold ground." Loki didn't notice the temperature as the air buffed them, but it was apparently cook as John seemed to retreat like a turtle into his coat while Sherlock pulled his tighter around him. Stepping in, the light flickered on again without assistance.

The room was as cold as a meat locker—in a way, it was—and the walls were lined with metal lockers with small nametags. In the center of the room was a metal table, surface bare. John jerked as his phone buzzed again.

Good. This room is filled with living people. See if you can figure out which one is dead. –ART

John looked at his companions, before reading it aloud. Loki glanced around the room, not sure if he grasped what the note was saying. "You don't think.. there's live people in the containers, do you?" John looked at Sherlock, who shook his head quickly. He stepped over to one of the lockers.

**SHIRLEY LOCKE**

"John, Loki, go read all the names on a wall. I'll take this one." Sherlock said, continuing to read. He ran a man with the name Les Trade, and another by Johnny Wat. It clicked almost immediately. "John, Loki, stop!" Sherlock ordered, choosing to read the names himself. Loki looked a little offended, stepping back to let the detective run around the room. It was a few seconds before Loki spoke.

"What do you think it is, Sherlock?" He questioned, strolling to the center of the room and leaning against the table. His hands prickled against the cold steel, but nothing more. Loki's eye surged up when the sociopath seized up, swirling on his heel and slapping a hand to his head.

"Every name in here is relating to _us_, the living! It's only a slight variation, but once you read the names, it's obvious. There's a name for everyone we know, including us. We just need to find the name of someone who's _dead_. Quick, John, what was the name of the deceased man?" Sherlock rounded on the doctor, his eyes glittering with undeniable mirth of the pursuit. John barely reacted—something Loki found rather impressive.

"His name was Dudley Wright. Is there..?" The name had barely left his mouth before Sherlock was on the chase again, going back to the original wall and kneeling to a particular locker. He gripped the handle, looking over his should with a breathless smile, before tugging the handle open. Another note fell out, and Loki heard a low fizzle. He turned his head, looking for the sound, but neither John nor Sherlock reacted. They must've not heard it. "Brilliant. What does it say?"

"'Very good. I invite you to a gamble for my hostage's lives. If you do not accept, they will all die. Men, women, and children. I will send you the next piece soon. Do rest up, for the next time you will not be returning to your beds soon.' It's signed ART again. It looks like initials." Sherlock said, stepping back and showing John the note. They both turned and looked when Loki opened another container, revealing a recorder or transmitter of sorts. "They were listening the entire time! Is it still working?"

"I don't believe so." Loki murmured, prodding it slightly. Sherlock heaved a cross between an aggravated sigh and a tired grumble. That was the type of cloud that hung over them on the way back to their respective flats.

* * *

They all gathered later that evening in 221B, John and Sherlock taking the chair and couch respectively. Loki pulled a chair in fro the kitchen and was now sitting about mid distance between the two. Sherlock was lying down, his eyes searching the ceiling for nothing in particular, and John was nursing a mug of hot tea. It wasn't many minutes before John placed his mug aside, looking at Loki. To this, Loki studied the carpet and the walls, his hands folded over the chair's arms. It was a strained silence.

"I heard about the deal." John said simply. The way he said it reminded of the mortal Coulson, how he sounded at peace. Yet, at the same time, there was a definite layer of danger. Loki smirked crookedly, his eyes flashing up to meet John's. He had respect for him, but something else coiled in him at the obvious show of distrust between yesterday's confrontation and now, this. Loki was used to distrust, but what threw him for the loop was the disappointment that John's posture seemed to show. It was a curious thing, as if the Son of Wat had expected him to be truthful, as if he was some old friend. Offsetting was a better term for the emotion that Loki felt. Nonetheless, he couldn't help but direct some of the anger at the detective for being so outright with affairs that were his own. "He said you weren't working with Moriarty. If that's the case, what is there to gain for you two to play this game? I suppose everything you told me was a lie." It was hard for the God of Lies to not get up and laugh in the stout man's face, baring his teeth savagely and telling John and Sherlock exactly what he was. He managed to hold it back, however, but he found himself chuckling.

"Doctor, I assure you, this is nothing more but treatment for an ailing mind. Boredom is a cruel fate. However, do not take all that I said before for a lie." Loki evenly replied, his tongue running over his lips quickly. Sherlock looked up, glancing between the two.

"Now that it's settled, I believe we should all tuck in. We have a long time tomorrow to see if there are anymore bodies or clues." Sherlock declared, standing up from the couch. "Do me a favor and do not stay up for too long reading. It really is unbefitting for a day of work, Lawson."

* * *

Oh. My. God. I love you all! Now I feel like I have to try really hard to keep you guys happy. (That's not a bad thing! ...I think) I've been writing all day to make sure this got done today. I forgot that I was having surgery last Thursday, and thus I've been under the weather since. It was just my wisdom teeth, and had a fairly good run-in with it. I have an infection, but we've caught it early and it should be done here soon. I'm going to try and start the real action and adventure now, but I'll keep some good old light-hearted stuff included. (Since I'm best at domestics!) I'm also working on making the chapters larger, but there wasn't much of an increase here.

Of course, review if you have time. I really appreciate it!

Thanks a ton,

Quia


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